We All Have A Gift
by poi922
Summary: "He prefers this particular B & E not be so…so blatant. Observing Reese from afar via a camera is different than actually breaking into his place. Or so he tells himself." (Prompt: "What situations would lead Harold to touch and actually use a gun and what would be the consequences, emotionally/physically? How would John help?")
1. Chapter 1

Ah, the key still works….so the lock hasn't been changed! Good. Not that it would have presented much of a problem given that his employee had taught him how to expertly pick such a mechanism, but he prefers this particular B & E not be so…so blatant. Observing Reese from afar via a camera is different than actually breaking into his place.

Or so he tells himself.

He stops momentarily.  
_Good Grief!_ He's actually adopting some of his employee's flexible morals! Not exactly a good thing as he's always seen himself as the one to provide an example of a more ethical existence. However, if one considers morality as merely the drawing of a line somewhere…then Mr. Reese _does_ draw lines. He simply tends to move them occasionally…

Bear brings him out of his reverie as the animal impatiently pushes past him to enter the vast room. Finch drops the leash, allowing the canine freedom to roam the apartment, the dog obviously searching for his Alpha, padding from one area of the condo to the other.

"He's not here, Bear," Finch offers absentmindedly, as he drops the key in his pocket and wipes sweaty palms on his coat. This is so much more difficult than he had thought! In his mind it was simply a matter of picking up a tool, and then…and then using it to retrieve an item. Or 'items' in this case.

Once again he thinks about calling for help; the detective duo perhaps, since Mr. Reese is out of the city on another matter. But once again he decides that would expose him to too many questions. Like why he is even concerning himself with this case in the first place.

Limping to the closet he carefully opens the louvered doors, mentally squashing his apprehension at seeing all those weapons lining the walls, carefully spaced like so many pieces of art on display in a museum. And in a way these are. Art pieces that is - of war, of destruction, of combat. Pistols, rifles, grenades, flash bombs, shotguns...a rocket launcher. And then there is that stack of various ammunitions, weapon cleaning supplies…

He remembers his first introduction to this cache of destructive instruments, when he hid in this very closet in order to keep one of their Numbers from finding him in the apartment. _"When were you ever going to need all those!"_ he had exclaimed, his horror overcoming his fear of discovery.

Reese had swiftly escorted him to the door, perhaps as much to keep his own cover from being blown as getting his squeamish boss away from that vast arms collection.

And here he is now, deliberately looking through that assortment of weapons with the intent to select one for use in his venture. "All right, Bear Let's see what we've got here. There should be plenty to choose from…!" The dog had finished his search of the condo and now stood dejectedly beside him, presumably because of Reese's absence, despite the ex-op's predominant scent in the place.

The idea of using one of these weapons horrifies no less now than before…and perhaps even more so… than the time he had braced himself to use a firearm to help break John out of Rikers. Thank God it had been unnecessary; Detective Carter had already done her magic in getting the ex-op released. And a good thing too; he had barely taught himself how to load the thing, much less shoot it!

But now there is no help for it; he needs a pistol.

"_Semi-automatic weapons have no socially redeeming purpose."_  
A view held by civil rights advocate Ms. Edelman, and with which he can agree. However, only an idealistic fool brings a knife to a gun fight…and he's pretty certain the people he may encounter are armed with more than just idealism and a knife.

In addition, he's only too cognizant of the limits to his physical capabilities, which even without his disability makes him a target for any bully. With these handicaps…well, the outcome was only too well demonstrated when he was mugged in that alley some months ago. The result? Several cuts, bruised ribs, and a grapefruit sized lump on his forehead!

Brains he has in abundance, but in a physical fight he might as well be the dunce of the class for all the good it does. There is a reason these weapons are considered equalizers, but hopefully, with any luck, simply displaying a firearm will be deterrent enough to get the job done.

He carefully considers his choice, mentally imaging Reese with one of these in hand. He lifts the Glock from its perch…and it immediately points to the floor. _Well, not this one; way too heavy!_ He then pictures the gun the ex-op normally carries in the small of his back. Shorter, more compact. He places the large Glock back on it's peg with two hands before reaching for a smaller pistol.

A Walther, he thinks, as his mind retrieves the data he has researched on various weapons, carefully comparing one to the other. The larger Glock would present a more intimidating image, but the smaller gun seems easier to control, fitting effortlessly in his hand.

And besides, it _is_ a 007 weapon…

Carefully retrieving the appropriate box of cartridges, he slips both gun and bullets into his pocket and makes his way out of the apartment.

….

_Hours before..._

"I really don't know officer. Maybe an hour, or 45 minutes. I wasn't out that long," she sniffs, eyes still red from tears shed earlier. "When I got there, the back door lock was broken and…and the first thing I noticed was that all my art supplies were gone! Including the sketch book I use for my commissions."

He sits and listens to the conversation, still in shock from the moment the image on precinct's doll-cam revealed Grace walking into the station. Glued to the screen he had waited impatiently for one of the officers to approach her and offer assistance, consciously keeping himself from picking up the phone to alert one of the Detective Duo of her presence.

But as much as he felt the need to help, he couldn't draw attention to the link between himself and this woman. To keep her safe meant to keep himself away from her…with all knowledge of her existence in his past life a closed book.

When one of the unis finally interviews her, the details come out. Some lowlife had broken into her condo and had stolen not just the traditional street-value items like jewelry and electronics, but also made off with the tools of her livelihood: her art supplies and still incomplete project sketches. The anger rising in him at those revelations is like something he's never experienced before! How dare anyone cause this lovely woman such grief? How dare they!

He envisions turning his personal attack dog (as Shaw calls him) loose on the perpetrators, and gleefully pictures Reese meting out his unique form of justice with plenty of shattered knee caps, broken noses and split lips. But the image is only that; the ex-op is not even in the city and presently is busy with another troublesome Number.

And he can't call the detective duo now to ask them to give special consideration to this case; that would only open the cover on a book best left unread. He sighs. In a city that logs a murder every 8 hours, there will be minimal attention given to a mere robbery; the chance that Grace will ever see any of her belongings again are slim to none. He rubs his face in frustration.

Still, there is something he can do! After all, surveillance is his specialty, his gift. He quickly sits at the computer to pull up the feeds from all the city cameras in the vicinity of Washington Square, near Grace's condo.

…..

"How's it going, Finch?" The familiar whispery voice is suddenly in his ear has as he scrolls through the dozens of images. _John._ He'd almost forgotten their latest case and the work that currently keeps his employee occupied.

"Oh, it's going, Mr. Reese" he replies in an offhanded way, his attention focused on the screen. _Ah, there! That's the camera he needs…one that shows the entrance to the back alley of that row of condos._ "Are you on your way back yet?"

"Not yet. I'm at the Tiffany Hotel, same one our Number is staying at. Something should shake loose soon."

"Oh." He tries not to let disappointment leak into his tone. After all, their prime mission is to work the Numbers the Machine throws at them, and that is exactly what his employee is doing now. Besides, he may not be tall and strong like Mr. Reese, but isn't Grace _his_ concern? This is obviously an off-the-books case; he'll handle it on his own...somehow.

"It was a late night, Finch. Our Number seems to be down for a nap so I'm going to get some sleep while I can. I'll check in with you as soon as my target is on the move again. Call me if you need me." And Finch finds himself alone with his thoughts, and quickly centers his attention on the surveillance images.

"There! Now I've got you…!"

He's suddenly conscious he's voiced the comment out loud and he leans into the monitor for a better view of the grainy image, feeling his heart quicken as he watches a shadowy figure traipse toward the camera. Whoever this is carries a large plastic garbage bag and a small suitcase type box. But the really damning evidence is the easel slung casually over a shoulder. Grace's easel…

A wet nose grazes his hand as Bear comes to investigate this change in the emotional atmosphere. The dog pricks his ears, bright button eyes filled with concern. Finch turns to the animal, offering a quick ear rub for reassurance.

"It's all right, Bear. We're going to get Grace's belongings back for her. And you're going to help! But first we need to stop off at John's place…"

….

_Present..._

The apartment building is as grungy as one could expect from the address. There are simply parts of every big city in the world where the sun never seems to shine, it's inhabitants walking forever in the gloom. Shady characters, living shady lives, in shady environs.

And dangerous environs if one pays attention to the evening news reports. He's not at all comfortable with this. An upbringing in the safety of a loving family, an education at exclusive universities, and a proclivity for technologic apparatus didn't exactly prepare him for stepping over rat feces in an over-crowded apartment building….or take in stride the sound of slamming objects and violent arguments behind scarred doors.

Bear crowds his side, primed for battle and seemingly right at home with this situation.

_Well, of course. _

The military dog had seen plenty of action in a war torn country; loud angry voices, threats of violence, and the scents of danger and death are all likely more familiar to him than the relatively sedate atmosphere of the Library!

"_Volg_, Bear. Stay with me…" he whispers to the dog as they advance down a dimly lit hallway.

He had parked the car near the alley with a plan of sneaking through apartment's back entrance, only to be thwarted by a door capable of being opened only from inside the building. And then a nervous journey around to the front had brought him face to face with a youngish woman sitting on the front steps.

Too much face paint, towering heels, and not enough clothing advertised her profession. Finch had braced himself for the traditional proposition as the woman straightened her posture, throwing out her rather ample bosom like a lure to a fish. But when Bear shifted position, she'd eyed the dog with apprehension and settled back with her cigarette.

In spite of his grim intent, he smiles inwardly. It's at least gratifying that even with his disabilities he's still considered fair game…

"Watch that loose railing, Gramps. The super ain't fixed it and one of these days someone is going to end up on their kiester!"

He'd nodded his thanks, stoically ignored the 'Gramps' title and mindful of the shaky banister, carefully hauled himself up the steps. Bear stayed at his heels, the dog's nose busily analyzing a plethora of odors. A handy weapon in itself, though in this case technology trumps nature: he's traced one of the perpetrators' phone to this building and using it's GPS, can pinpoint exactly in which apartment it's located.

"All right, Bear", he warns the dog softly. "This is it. Put on your game face…"


	2. Chapter 2

Pulling a set of small instruments from his pocket he inserts them into the flimsy lock and within seconds hears the audible click of the tumblers. He smiles to himself. _Mr. Reese would be proud!_ With just a slight push the door swings open revealing a small room as depressing as the building's hallway.

And opposite the door, sitting at a 50's era dinette set, two men engrossed in a card game.

Their attention however, turns quickly to Finch and the dog as both men rise, cards still in hand. His brief survey of the room confirms their loot is still with them; a large plastic bag, now empty, lies on the floor in front of the kitchen counter. On the counter are a laptop, two small speakers, a jewelry box, and a sketch pad. And next to the stash is what Grace values more than the all the rest: her box of art supplies.

"Hey, old man! You're in the wrong apartment…" rasps the larger of the two, his ample chin shaking like the jowls on a pig.

_Well, it's now or never_.

He limps into the room and pulls the Walther from his pocket. Bear, standing beside him, impatiently waits for the command to engage, the canine's entire body a stretched wire singing with tension. One word from the human and he'll have an arm for lunch!

But Finch is concentrating on the gun in his hand, pointing it at a space between the two men while desperately envisioning Reese's grip and stance in similar situations. _One hand on the pistol the other on…the wrist?_

"Well now, Gramps. Just what do you think you're doing?" Pig Face asks, a very large black pistol suddenly appearing in his hand, as his partner drops his cards on the table and reaches around to his back, ostensibly to also retrieve a gun.

Finch blinks. Apparently he should have chosen the Glock after all. These thugs don't seem at all intimidated by having the Walther pointed at them.

"I don't want any trouble. I've just come for those items you took from a condo last night," he says calmly, his insides shaking like jello.

"Oh, really? And if I'm not inclined to give them to you? What are you going to do…shoot me?" Pig Face gives a derisive snort, sounding much like the animal Finch has labeled him in his thoughts. "Not likely old man…you can't even hold that gun still!"

_Oh, God._ The thug is right. His hands have palsy, the gun shaking back and forth like an aspen leaf in a breeze. He concentrates on locking his arms, holding the gun rigid. But it's of little use. And now both men are pointing their weapons at him...and their hands _don't_ shake!

Bear adds the increasing tension in the room to his own, rumbling in his throat while lifting his lips to reveal razor sharp teeth. For the first time since their encounter, Finch sees genuine fear in the faces of both criminals.

Apparently on the scale of intimidation, a growling dog still trumps a gun.

"Shoot the dog! I'll take care of the gimp here…!" Pig Face orders.

And then a most extraordinary phenomenon unfolds: he can suddenly follow every action in the room as though watching a film in slow-motion! He casually observes the second gunman raise his weapon and point it at Bear. Sees clearly the dog bunching thigh muscles in readiness for an attack. Notes his hands become steady…

Closing his eyes, he squeezes the trigger.

There is a loud gunshot - followed by another, and then a scream. Reverberations bounce off the grimy walls, merging with the sounds of a furious dog, and all this overlaid with sobs, and groans, and whimpers.

The pistol had seemed to take on a life of its own at the moment it fired, slamming back into his hand hard enough to feel all the way to his elbow. He'd of course read about the "kick" in his research, but never, ever,expected it to be _that_ powerful. He opens his eyes and wishes immediately that he hadn't, because the scene before him is violent…and bloody.

Bear stands growling in front of the men, one with a very jagged bite showing through a bloody sleeve, which while ghastly enough, is still not as stomach-turning a sight as that of the thug's partner in crime. Pig Face lies on the floor, clutching his leg with both hands, all the while groaning curses as blood seeps from a bullet wound in his thigh. Finch blanches in horror.

_Oh God, oh God! He shot someone! Oh, Merciful God! _

He stares at the gun still clutched in his hand, his stomach lurching at the sight of the weapon and he's very much afraid he's going to lose his breakfast here and now. The blood is bad enough, but that he may have been the cause…it doesn't bear thinking about!

And then a long arm reaches around him, warm fingers closing gently over his hand as they remove the offensive piece of metal from his grip. He swivels a half turn and stumbles into the much larger body of his employee.

"Mr. Reese…John!" He backs away and forces himself to look at the groaning man across the room. "I shot him, John! I shot him…"

"Bear! _Bewaken!_" the ex-agent orders, firmly grabbing Finch by the arm while moving himself into the smaller man's line of sight, effectively blocking the bloody scene from his boss. The dog stations himself equal distance between his two charges, still growling, vigilant and ready to attack should either man attempt to escape.

"Harold, you didn't shoot anyone…" Reese replies, gently forcing his boss to back-step toward the door.

The geek halts his backward motion and meets the sympathetic gaze of his employee.

"But I did, John! I don't know how it happened but I did! I…I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger!" The last few words drift into an almost inaudible whisper.

"Have you ever shot a pistol before?"

Finch shakes his head, consciously keeping himself from peeking around the body of his employee.

"Even a gun this size has a kick to it, Finch. Unless you've practiced shooting it and learned to compensate for that recoil, your arm is going to pull up the moment it fires. You never even got close to your intended target." He turns slightly, and with a wry smile jerks a thumb in the direction of the dinette. "You did kill the light hanging over the table though..."

Finch stares at the shattered shade, pieces of it's cheap brittle material now decorating the table top, the single light bulb sprayed all over the kitchen.

"See, Harold? Your shot went wild. The bullet in that thug's leg is from _my_ gun."

Sirens sound in the distance; the uni herd coming in for the kill. Reese returns his own gun to the small of his back, pockets the Walther and quickly gathers the thug's weapons from the floor.

"We need to get out of here. Get Grace's things while I check these guys."

He gives his boss a light shove in the direction of the kitchen area. Finch moves hesitantly toward the counter, his anger replacing horror at seeing Grace's possessions laid out like leftovers from a garage sale. He carefully places the items into the bag, only partially aware of the Reese's activities behind him...

"I'll go load these in the car…"

"No!" Reese replies with uncharacteristic force, then gentling his voice, "No…that's alright. Just wait in the hallway…"

"You don't trust me to help…?" Finch grumbles, and watches a slow smile soften the ex-agent's face as Reese tightens Pig Face's own belt around a folded towel on the man's leg wound.

"You are unparalleled in the brain department, Harold. But in this environment, you're a lamb among wolves…" Finished with Pig Face, Reese knots a dish towel around the second man's arm, then efficiently zip ties the thug to the handle of the ancient fridge.

"Hurrumph…!" Finch tries for offence, but the whole event has left him with a burning desire to exit the place. "Come on, Bear. We're done here…"

The dog looks to his Alpha, catches the slight nod and moves to the side of the smaller human, the doggie smile he bestows on the older man clearly conveying that he considered the whole event fun, fun, fun!

…

Epilogue

Finch watches as "Detective Stills" stands on the stoop, paint box in hand, the large plastic bag next to his feet, an easel leaning against the door jam. He has a perfect view now, thanks to the small camera his employee has attached to a nearby tree trunk. A cheap and not very reliable gadget, especially in wet weather, but good enough to capture this particular scene.

Leaning forward he drinks in the sight of his beloved Grace as she appears in the doorway. He can follow the conversation through John's link and listens intently to every word, cataloging every nuance. She is over the moon with joy, especially with the return of her precious art supplies. John follows her inside with the paraphernalia, and the door closes briefly.

He sits and waits. So…after all his bravado and fantasy about being a hero in this scenario - taking care of Grace even if she's unaware of his efforts - it's still Mr. Reese who ends up "doing the deed" and delivering the goods. He's not sure whether to be elated at the outcome or disappointed in the process…but the memory of that thug bleeding on the floor quickly determines which.

We all have a gift, a unique proficiency, he thinks, which is why he hired John Reese in the first place. In this case it was once again mostly his employee's skills rather than his own that brought down the bad guys. So be it then. The end result is the same: Grace has her belongings back, and that's what counts!

He stares at the door patiently and within minutes, Reese appears. Grace follows him to the steps then impulsively throws her arms around the taller man for a hug. It's a sight that should hurt…but doesn't, and mainly because of the surprise and awkwardness he reads in ex-op's body language. The man really doesn't know what to do with his hands and ends up patting the woman impersonally on the shoulder! Finch grins at the sight.

…..

"_You were supposed to be watching our Number, remember? In the Tiffany Hotel. So what happened? Did you solve the case?"_

"_No, not really. But he's not going anywhere 'till I get back. I duck-taped him to the radiator with a 'do not disturb' sign on the door."_

"_But how did you know…? Oh. You were listening!" _

"_Always, Harold. Always..." _

_And at that point in their conversation Reese didn't really think it necessary to mention the tracker he'd reinstalled in Finch's glasses…_

_._

* * *

_._

The prompt for this story is:

"What situations would lead Harold to touch and actually use a gun and what would be the consequences (emotionally/physically)? How would John help?"

I deliberately stayed away from a more obvious plotline (Harold saving/rescuing Reese) so hope this meets expectations! :)


End file.
